Train Riding in China

"Click, click . . . .click, click . . . . click, click."

Staring out of the train window, the rhythm of the train's rails hypnotized me into a thoughtful state. The cares and anxieties of the days' future events melted into an increasing awareness of the Now. Below me the countryside of central China passed before me in a blur, and I suddenly felt like I was witnessing the unfolding of China's rural life in front of me. As the rhythm of the train fell into sync with that of my own beating heart, I felt myself merge and become one with what I was watching.

"Click, click . . . .click, click . . . . click, click."

Even before the light of a new day lit the sky overhead, I could see the moving shadows of the farmers as they moved into their fields to begin another day of spring planting. Some drew their Oxen behind them, others walked with only their farm utensils slung over their shoulders. They approached their fields as an artist approaches a blank canvas. Squatting on the raised earthen dikes that ran around the contour of their land, they pondered how best to begin their day's labor. Silently they stared, some perhaps feeling a sense of tiredness at the monotony of what was before them. They would perform the same task today that they had performed yesterday, and which they would perform again tomorrow. Behind them, smoke rose from their dwellings as their wives prepared breakfast for their families. For most, home consisted of a single 15x15-foot living/dining/family room, with one or two smaller bedrooms. Most were constructed of adobe brick or hewn rock, each bearing the distinctive red coloring of the earth's clay. The roofs were dark fired tile, similar in shape to the Mexican hacienda roofs of Southern California and Mexico. Often fruit trees are visible in the front yard, and small farm animals move freely from the yard into the house, seemingly at will.

"Click, click . . . .click, click . . . . click, click."

Individual villagers flowed from the houses to dirt paths that connected each house to the others, joining others heading to their common destination. Eventually, the larger paths merged onto village streets, and soon the main thoroughfare to the market, school or other destination was clogged with people, all walking in the same direction, like water droplets slowly forming a stream, then merging with others into a river. Most are woman and children. The children laughed and played as they meandered towards their neighborhood Primary and Middle schools. For some, the walk could take an hour or more. Each wore the uniform with their school colors, usually blue and white, and many wore the school sash around their necks. Many carried their books in packs on their backs. Most seemed eager to be away from the work and drudgery of home and with their friends. A lucky few rode bikes. As I passed through the larger cities, I could see many of these children waiting patiently on street corners for the city bus. Their mothers headed in a different direction, carrying produce harvested the previous day from their fields and gardens to market. Since most of the day's shopping would transpire before the morning was over, it was imperative that the women arrive early in order to have the best chance at selling their wares. Many carried their infant children on their backs, asleep in their wrap-around halters, or Bei-bais. They would return in the afternoon with purchases of their own, each buying produce for that night's dinner, since most did not own such conveniences as refrigerators or ice boxes. The movement of people -- the men to the fields, the women to market and the children to school, created a beehive of activity in the early morning light. Many of the streets were wet, even though there had been no rain. Large water trucks moved along the largest causeways, their huge waterspouts baptizing the street, cleansing it from the previous days trash and dirt.

"Click, click . . . .click, click . . . . click, click."

As the day progresses, the women join the men in the planting of the fields. For some, the time is spent preparing the earth to receive the seeds and sprouts of their chosen crop. A few sit atop small tilling machines, riding back and forth across their fields as the large grated wheels churned up the mud. Most walk behind large gray Oxen, a simple wooden plow hitched by rope to the beast. The plow consists of several rows of wooden spikes 6 inches in length, each spike held into a thick cross beam. Slowly the farmer and Ox plod in the thick, knee-deep mud, the farmer coaxing and whipping the animal forward, each step a victory for both man and beast. Slowly they work the field, turning the soil, destroying the large clods, and exposing the fertile underbelly of the earth. A few are unable to even afford a simple ox, and these are forced to till their fields unassisted. With small hand plows, they labor to accomplish in one day what their neighbor performs in a few hours. As one gazes out across the landscape, one sees patches of dark, intense green. Inside one of these rectangular fields sits the farmer's wife, carefully gathering the rice sprouts into bundles, laying each bundle carefully to the side after gathering. From the train, once can see the progress she makes, slowly moving forward, the green leaf of the field slowly disappearing as if being eaten by a large caterpillar. Once the day's planting has been gathered, both man and woman move into the plowed fields. As the heat of the day builds, pointed bamboo hats are donned, meager protection from the stifling heat and humidity of the airless field. A wooden grate is placed in the mud and pressed, imprinting the earth with eight-inch squares. At each corner a rice sprout in plunged into the mud. As each worker stands in the mud, their backs bent nearly perpendicular, one sees little more than the darting hand moving back and forth into the soil.

"Click, click . . . .click, click . . . . click, click."

The solitude of the farm is occasionally interrupted by the abrupt appearance of a large factory, constructed seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Maligned by those in the West as "Sweat Shops," these factories offer the farm-laboring women an alternative to the hard labor of the farm. Built to draw from the farm and field, the higher paying factory coaxes the women in the country to replace the physically demanding labor of the farm with the mind-numbing work of the factory. There are plenty of takers. The clothes, shoes and other items manufactured in these factories will be shipped to Walmart and other Western stores, supplying the world with a substantial part of its commerce. We in the West often speak against these factories in China, India, and other poor countries, but they are welcome by the people here, and allow them to improve their station in life.

"Click, click . . . .click, click . . . . click, click."

Afternoon approaches, and many return from the fields to eat lunch and enjoy a few hours of fun and gaming with their neighbors. Tables are set up in the shade of indoors, and games of cards and Majong are heartily and enthusiastically engaged in. the heat of mid-day lulls all to sleep -- dog, pig and farmer alike. Soon, however, the call of the field is heard, and all return again the planting.

"Click, click . . . .click, click . . . . click, click."

As I pass through the countryside, I can't help but wonder at the life going on below me. I contrast the labors of my own life with those below me. I envy the obvious spirit of camaraderie and community I see. The simplicity of the farmer's life draws me. There are no cell phones ringing, no cars, big screen TVs to distract one from the simple and pure pleasures of life. Chinese rural life is communal in a very real sense. Nightly gatherings and village parties at the close of the year's harvest mark the passage of time, and that time is spent with those who sojourn with them. It is a simple, yet apparently satisfying life.

"Click, click . . . .click, click . . . . click, click."

Late afternoon brings the return of the children from schools, and the excited laughter and shouting can be heard from across the fields. The returning members of the family join those in the fields, recounting the days learning, assisting where possible in the labors of their parents. Smoke once again begins to arise from the houses as dinner is prepared. Dogs can be seen running around among the farmhouses, playing, scavenging, mating. As darkness descends, the farmer remains steadfast in the field, utilizing every valuable ray of light to his advantage. Lights begin to appear in the farmhouses as children are bathed and readied for bed. As the last visible forms pass from my eyesight, I see the farmer still at work in his field.

"Click, click . . . .click, click . . . . click, click."

Above me a few stars begin glowing in the smoke-filled air of the China night. The croaking of frogs rises up to meet my ears, their call answered by the whistle of my train as it passes into the night.